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But a parried stroke, or a nicely balked assault, stirred D'Hérouville's heat; if repeated the blood surged into his head, and he was often like to throw caution to the winds. Once his point scratched the vicomte's jaw. "Very good," the vicomte admitted, lunging in flanconade. His blade grated harshly against D'Hérouville's hilt. It was close work. They disengaged.
For I have seen him bring down a hawk upon the wing, or throwing his finger-ring high into the air, pass his rapier neatly through it as it shot down past him. Another trick of his do I remember, une, deux, trois, and a turn of the wrist in flanconade, which seldom failed to tear my sword from my hand, so quickly and irresistibly did he perform it.
The blades clashed; there was the soft pad-pad of feet, the involuntary "ah!" when the point was nicely avoided; there were lunges in quart, there were cuts over and under, thrusts in flanconade and tierce, feint and double-feint, and sudden disengagements. The sweat trickled down the vicomte's face; Victor's forehead glistened with moisture.
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